Such a Lovely Face
by afewreelthoughts
Summary: Thomas's plans leave the Front are interrupted by a young lieutenant with a beautiful face. Taken from the prompt on dakinkmeme's tumblr: "Edward Courtenay and Thomas Barrow meet on the battlefield before Edward goes blind. Thomas saves Edward from blindness but he is the one who loses his sight instead."
1. Chapter 1

Thomas swore he would have done it. He'd thought about it for months, and his conversation with Matthew Crawley had steeled his resolve. If he'd been uninterrupted, he would have lifted his lighter above the trenches and won a hole in his hand and a home back at Downton. He wanted nothing more than to leave this place, and he would have gone through with it, he knew.

But he was interrupted. And his well-laid plans thrown to the fickle winds.

Thomas crouched, alone and shaking, in a corner of the trenches and had lit himself cigarette and decided that the time could not be more opportune when he heard footsteps.

"Evening, soldier."

When Thomas recognized an officer's insignia on the shoulders of the figure standing before him, he rose and saluted, "Good Evening, Lieutenant."

"Stealing a smoke on your time off, Corporal?" He had a lilting, upper-class accent, that made Thomas painfully aware of how rough his voice must sound.

"Is that against the rules, Lieutenant?"

"No, it's not…" the figure shifted his weight forwards and back, like a child before the window of a candy shop. "I was actually wondering if I might borrow a light?"

"Of course," Thomas handed over his lighter, and the lieutenant sat in the dirt. Thomas shifted uncomfortably. It seemed rude to sit next to an officer when there was no need, so he remained standing. The lieutenant crossed his legs and drew out a rain-stained, crisply-folded letter. He opened up the paper and lit the lighter. Thomas began a sincere prayer this man wouldn't use all his lighter fluid reading a letter from home, but at that moment the lieutenant tipped a corner of the paper into the small flame, and the fire illuminated his face. He was a young man, as Thomas had guessed, no older than Thomas himself. And he was beautiful: high cheekbones, clear fair eyes, and soft, curved lips. The beautiful lieutenant watched his letter burn until the flames licked his fingers and he dropped the paper at Thomas's feet to choke in the mud.

"Fuck you, Jack," his lilting voice muttered at the dying flames. The lieutenant stood and handed Thomas his lighter. Their fingers brushed.

"Much Obliged, Corporal."

"Barrow. Corporal Barrow." Thomas found himself hoping the young officer would offer his name in exchange. He didn't.

"Much Obliged, Corporal Barrow."

"Medical Corps, Ninth Division," he saluted. "In case you receive any other letters in need of burning."

The lieutenant returned his salute and tried to smile, but the motion of his lips died almost before it began.


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas knew that, as a medic, he wasn't supposed to have favorites, and he understood why.

Nevertheless, he took a special liking to some patients over others. These days they included Major Ernest Devereux. A young aristocrat losing his hair long before his time, Devereux lost the better part of his right leg three weeks ago. He was very plain and very pompous, but he laughed at Thomas's jokes, and Thomas liked him. Most of the time he spent in the hospital, Thomas found himself wondering what good he could do these men beyond patching up their skin and spitting them back into the world. But when he took the time to sit on the end of Ernest's bed, cracking jokes about their high command and reading him old newspapers from home, he felt like he made a difference. Ernest often said Thomas had more clever things to say about the world than all his wealthy friends back in London. To which Thomas would say that he'd like to meet these friends. Ernest would say he didn't: they were horrid. Thomas would reply that he liked any man with enough money, and Ernest would grin.

Thomas was folding up the grimy paper on an afternoon full of smoke and the sounds of distant bombs, when Ernest ground his teeth in pain.

"All right, sir?"

"God, Celia, you'd think it would be a blessing to be alive!" he moaned.

Infections came and went on Ernest's stump, and this one had been brewing for days in defiance of all the soap and alcohol in the hospital. Ernest reached out and grasped Thomas's hand, fingernails gouging his palm.

When the pain had passed and he let go of Thomas's hand, Thomas asked, "Who's Celia?"

"My wife."

"You never mentioned her name."

"I've found that men who talk a great deal about their families generally don't return to them."

"Do you miss her?" Ernest nodded. Thomas shifted on the end of his bed.

"May I ask you something personal, Major?"

"Please," he grunted.

"How do you tell someone you fancy… that you fancy them?"

Thomas had seen Lieutenant Courtenay twice since watching him burn the letter from Jack - whoever he was - but they had not spoken. The first time Thomas had been busy pushing past a group of soldiers, while bearing another on a stretcher. The second time he came across Courtenay and another young officer leaning in the open doorway of what must have been their dugout.

Thomas had halted, determined to come up with something clever to say before approaching them.

"What do you mean, you don't smoke, Eddie?"

"I don't like it."

"I once said I could never trust a man who can't go through a pack a week, at least." The other man let smoke drift from his mouth.

Edward laughed, an uneven, shaky noise. "Then you can't trust me, Harry."

"Course I can," said the man called Harry.

"You, no can't," Edward said, his voice still shaking. "I think the oddest things late at night."

"Like what?" Harry said, teeth gripping his cigarette.

Thomas tried to imagine the look on Edward's lovely face during that silence. He breathed heavily, and eventually settled on the words, "I think about how beautiful the gas clouds look at night and… and about how useless most of the classes we took back at Oxford are now," but they sounded hollow to Thomas's ears.

"You are a silly chap," Harry said and handed Edward his cigarette. "Give this a few drags, it'll clear your mind. I'm off to bed."

Thomas had stayed in the shadows for a long time, watching Edward watch the cigarette burn to ash in his hand.

If Thomas were to stay here any longer, he needed a dream to keep him going. It comforted him to pretend he could talk to Edward Courtenay again one day, to pretend that talk could be of love. Good god, it felt good to pretend.

"Come again?" Ernest said.

"How do you tell someone you fancy that you fancy them?"

"Oh, Thomas, you and me sitting her together almost every day," he sighed, "and here's me thinking you'd say nothing of it." Ernest gave Thomas a wicked grin.

"I don't fancy you," Thomas said firmly.

Ernest pouted, clearly pleased with his joke. "Well, don't do French girls. I haven't done any, but that's what I've heard."

"I'm serious, sir. If there's… someone back home I'm mad about… how should I say it?"

Ernest shifted again, and yanked at the covers. "God, Barrow! I don't know. You've never had a sweetheart before?"

"I have, but… this one I admire from afar. It's hard to speak when I look at her. She's… she's stunning."

"If you want my advice…"

"I do."

"Admire her, and leave it at that. Nobody can get hurt that way."

"What made you such a cynic?"

At that very moment, the first bomb hit. Still nowhere near the hospital, but nearer by far. Ernest shut his eyes against the noise. Thomas's bones rattled.

"Barrow!" called Captain White. "Sending stretcher bearers to the Front.

You're needed." When Thomas stood, Ernest grabbed hold of his hand.

"I've got to go, Major Devereux. Got to go now." Ernest shook his head. "I don't got no choice."

"Barrow!" the voice yelled again.

"I'll come back for you, I promise," Thomas said as he wrenched his hand from Ernest's desperate grasp.

But of course he didn't.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas stepped off the motorbus when it stopped in the village of Downton. The gravel crunched beneath his feet.

"Everything alright, Corporal?" the driver called down to him. "Are you where you need to be?"

"Yes," Thomas nodded. The air on his face was cool, refreshing. He knew this place. He could find his way to Downton Abbey blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back, he knew. But when the motorbus pulled away, spraying rock and dust at his heels, he began to panic.

The path to the house should be slightly to his right, but there were trees and benches in his way, and the road twisted and turned. Finding it alone would be a needle in a haystack, and before he found it, he'd likely crash into trees, walls, and stray children. Not the image of the dignified soldier he'd hoped the staff at the house would see in him. He could make a fool of himself, or he could ask for help.

Never before had Thomas asked for help. Not of anyone. His first month at Downton, Sarah O'Brien had seen him floundering over a stain on his uniform. She had calmly fixed it, all the while insulting him for his carelessness. He'd insulted her right back, for being a meddling old woman and not very nice to look at. When they ran out of insults for each other, they started on Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and the upstairs folk, and they soon realized there was no end to the fun they could have at others' expense. They had been inseparable ever since.

Thomas could hear the crunch of gravel all around him and the voices of men, women, and children, but he did not know who was near enough to ask for help. Judging by their voices, no one was close to him at all. Well wasn't he the last thing they wanted to see: a helpless wounded soldier standing still as a monument in the town square. If he started yelling out to passers-by, they might run from him. He didn't know how long he stood there, waiting. Too long.

So he put his walking stick in front of him and started forward. When Thomas was a boy and lived up north, the winter nights were black and thick as pitch. He remembered waking in the middle of the night and walking forward with arms outstretched. In the blackness, every step was a mile, and Thomas would pretend he were a giant, crossing oceans and continents with each step. He wasn't blind and helpless – he was divine.

Thomas's shins collided with a wooden bench. "Fuck!" What was the stupid stick for if it didn't do its job?

"Can you see where you're going?" came a friendly voice, a man's voice, and it sounded old.

"What does it look like?" Thomas snapped. The old man stood up, scoffed, and his steps grew fainter and fainter. Thomas collapsed onto the bench and decided it would be best to stay there until old men learned some manners. He ground the end of his walking stick into the gravel, ran his hands up and down the smooth wood.

He needed to ask for help eventually, he reasoned. He was a young man in uniform. Someone would take pity on him. He shuddered at the thought. _Take pity._That was just what a man did when he took pity, but he took so much more than that: he took your dignity, humanity, even. He didn't want someone to take pity on him, no matter how he needed it. But what more could he expect? He leaned back against the bench, and closed his eyes. Colors still played before his useless eyes: blue and yellow and red and gold, never resolving into anything he could make sense of.

"Thomas?"

"Lady Sybil!" Thomas turned towards her voice and stood up. He straightened his back and lifted his chin, as though he were watching guard over the doors of Downton in black and white livery. "What brings you here, milady?"

"What brings you here?"

"I..." Thomas didn't realize his condition needed explaining. _A gas mask shoved on hastily, and too late_ would be the strictly honest answer to her question. "I was discharged."

"Of course," she murmured, her voice turning soft and strong, the way it did when she spoke to her closest friends. "I'm sorry I asked."

Thomas could have told her she did not need to apologize, but he knew it wasn't true, and if he knew Sybil at all, she knew it, too.

"Were you hoping to go to the house? I'm headed there myself."

"I have nowhere else to go," he said.

"You really don't?" Still that soft tone. She was standing so close Thomas could smell the lavender of her perfume.

He felt himself blush. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. No one needed to know that; it was his business and his alone, and he didn't want anyone's charity. So he lied. "There is family I could write to... and some old friends..." not many of those, if he were being perfectly honest. "...but I thought I could start here."

"I'm glad you did," Lady Sybil Crawley slid her arm through his and started walking slowly along the gravel path. Thomas stumbled on their first step, but she said nothing about it. "I'm glad Downton can be a place of happiness and refuge for someone," her voice sounded open and strained in a way he had never heard back when he worked at the house. It would be logical to ask if Downton were a place where she could be happy, but it seemed too intimate a question to ask his one-time employer's daughter as she walked him to the only place left he could call home.

When they reached the top of the gravel path and sunshine turned the dots in his vision brilliant , Lady Sybil squeezed his arm. "Wait here," she said and walked away. Thomas titled his face up to the sunshine. He could see the silhouette of the grand house against a blue, blue sky in his mind's eye. He never thought he'd ever miss the sight.

The sound of a bell in the distance, and then Mr. Carson's voice, "Yes, Lady Sybil?"

She had brought him to the front door. Of course she had. His heart swelled when she took his arm again. He was walking in the front door of Downton Abbey on the arm of Lord Grantham's youngest daughter. He memorized the sound of his feet crunching the gravel below, ringing on the wooden floors, then sinking gently into the rich carpets. "You wouldn't mind if I left you to find my father, would you, Thomas?" her voice echoed through the hall.

"Of course not." Lady Sybil's small, hard shoes crossed the space, ascend the stairs. Thomas could have cartwheeled and somersaulted, he was so giddy. Standing where many a lord had stood, and out of livery, he wanted to remember this small victory the rest of his days. He could have walked fearless through Nomansland, fueled on this feeling alone.

When he was certain she was gone, he let a satisfied smile creep over his face. "How are things these days, Mr. Carson?" his voice echoed on the carved wood and ancient stone.

"Excellent since you've left, Thomas," the butler said quietly enough to keep it between themselves.

"It's Corporal Barrow, now." He had not minded when Sybil used his Christian name, but when it was Carson, he felt as though he were the footman Thomas again, as though the events of the last two years had never transpired. The feeling pained and relieved him at the same time.

"Excuse me for coming to conclusions, but it seems to me you've been discharged, which means you are no longer in the British Army."

Thomas took deep breaths to keep from lashing out at the old man. He would have been happy to insult him in peace, but who knew how private they could be in this giant place? Besides, he had nothing to say to that.

"How is Mr. Bates?"

"I fail to see how the subject is any of your business, Thomas."

It wasn't, but he hated the thought of setting foot inside these walls with the haloed valet ready to pity him at a moment's notice.

The sounds of barking and nails on the wooden floorboards came an instant before Robert Crawley's booming voice. "You said you met whom in the village, Sybil?"

"A man who used to be in our employ. He needs our help."

Thomas had no sooner bristled at Lady Sybil's words _needs our help_ than he felt a wet nose poking at his knees. He put his cane on the ground and crouched to scratch Isis' ears. The dog nuzzled at his face and licked his chin. "How are you, old girl?" She barked once more, then pulled away as her owner's footsteps came to a stop.

"Thomas!" exclaimed Lord Grantham. He could only imagine the look of shock on the man's face. "What brings you to Downton?"

"I told you already, father," Sybil said.

"Of course, of course, Sybil. To be honest, Thomas, I never thought to see you again since you left for the war."

"I never thought I'd return to Downton again, sir."

There followed a long silence, and Thomas did nothing to stop it. Imagining the look on Lord Grantham's face, as on Carson's, filled him with pride. Too much pride, he knew, but god it felt good. Rendering speechless – if only for a moment – these self-satisfied old men who thought he'd only ever come to nothing. What had he come to, though, besides being wounded in the king's service? Was this the nothing they had always thought would become of him? To become an impotent houseguest dependent on their goodwill and charity? His face fell.

"May I ask how you came by... your condition?" Lord Grantham spoke carefully, as if he were uncertain if he were speaking outside the rules of propriety, a crime he usually condemned in others, but never committed himself.

"I was retrieving the wounded during a battle, sir," Thomas said, "when soldiers started calling out the warning for gas in our trench. There was an officer I knew..." How well had he known Courtenay? "...who was passed out cold in the trench next to me. I put my mask on him before I found one for myself. The doctors say I wouldn't have lived had I been a second slower."

"Really, Thomas?" Sybil's voice was full of awe.

"Yes, Lady Sybil."

"That's a very noble story, corporal," Carson grumbled.

"It's all true, Carson," Thomas said, though had neglected the reason why he did it: that the image of Lieutenant Courtenay's beautiful face shriveling under the gas turned his stomach and froze his heart. Better to let them think it was for God and Country.

"You don't believe him, Carson?" Robert Crawley asked. Thomas was glad to hear the butler's tone had not been lost on the lord of the manor.

"It's a fantastic story, sir," Carson said. "And a little hard to believe."

"Dozens of such stories take place every day on the front lines," Lord Grantham said, clapping Thomas on the shoulder. "Sybil tells me you need a place to stay while you contact friends and family, and we are only too happy to provide it. Carson, tell the footmen to prepare Thomas's old room."

The winding staircase to the servants' quarters filled Thomas with nausea. He pressed the end of his cane into the carpet to steady himself.

"Heavens no, father! He's not a servant here."

"You suggest he should stay upstairs with us?"

"Yes, I do." Sybil must have lifted her head and stuck her chin out in defiance. "They'd never let him in at the hospital," she said. "Clarkson is very strict: officers only."

"Clarkson doesn't make the rules, Sybil."

"He could be less pompous about them."

Thomas could hear Lord Grantham's shoes pivoting away from his daughter. "Have the footmen prepare a guest room, then, Carson. Does that satisfy you, Sybil?"

"Yes. Thank you, father."

His footsteps took him away, and Carson and Isis followed. They would be headed towards the library, Thomas guessed, from the direction of their footsteps. Sybil took Thomas's arm again and headed towards the staircase. "It won't take long for William to prepare your room."

_William._He'd see Thomas helpless. The damn precious boy had more power than him, no matter what room he stayed in. Thomas had not considered that.

"I suppose you don't want to wait about downstairs for everyone to make a fuss," Sybil said.

"Thank you." Thomas did not begin to wonder how Lady Sybil had come by her extraordinary kindness, especially in a family such as hers. He only thanked his lucky stars.

"Do you know what happened to that officer, Thomas? The one you saved," Sybil asked as she led him up the stairs. It was a painfully slow endeavor. After a terrible fall down the hospital steps when he'd moved to fast, Thomas hated the activity.

"I don't know. I like to think he's home with some negligible injury, home and safe."

"What was his name?"

"Lieutenant Courtenay."

"I work at the hospital in the village now, to help with the war effort. If by chance he turns up there, I could..."

"Thank you for the thought, Lady Sybil. I doubt I will see him again."

But that's just what happened.


	4. Chapter 4

His first day living upstairs at Downton, Thomas Barrow felt like a king. On the third, he was bored. By the end of the week, he felt like a jailed man, and wanted to scream and scream and scream. True, he slept in a guest room and he ate at the grand table (an hour before the family did), but he was no guest. He was a barely-tolerated nuisance. The staff spread towels beneath his table setting to catch the sauce and soup he dripped at every meal. When he spilled broth on his lap and hissed in pain, William had been at his elbow, mopping up the mess.

"Don't you bloody touch me!" Thomas hissed at him.

"Sorry." The boy retreated.

It was William, too, who drew his bath. William who set out his clothes. Thomas wondered whether William had become Thomas's official valet.

A younger Thomas would have liked very much to knock the elder upside the head, he knew, and tell him to lord his new power over that miserable creature as much as he could. And Thomas thought about it. Every day he thought about it. But he had no power to lord over anyone. And he hated it.

Every day Thomas listed every family member and acquaintance he could remember to Lord Grantham, for him to write to. When he ran out of family, he started listing names of his comrades in arms, anyone who might have a good memory of him.

The brightest moment of every day was when O'Brien snuck away from work to sit with him in his empty, empty room.

"Blimey, Thomas, you got it made." She sank onto the edge of the plush bed beside him. He had to admit he ought to be getting the best sleep of his life. "Carson's head almost exploded when he heard you were to eat meals in the dining room."

They talked and gossiped and pretended everything was the same, but every day, far too soon, he felt her rise from the bed beside him. Every day he begged her to stay.

"I got a job, you know, Thomas?"

"Right you are, Miss. O'Brien. You do your job, and I'll be here." Waiting.

The loneliness of it all was maddening.

Thomas tried to entertain himself, but everything there was to do at Downton required the use of eyes. A library full of books to read. Acres and acres of land to admire. So Thomas spent his free time memorizing/memorized the house, measuring every hallway, room, and gallery with his paces. He was shocked at how alien the place felt without the aid of his sight and how often, even with the help of his cane, he collided into walls, doorways, and once, a valuable Ming vase. He had caught it before it crashed to the ground. Thomas thought he knew Downton Abbey inside and out, every nook and cranny from his time working there before the war.

Stairs gave him the worst trouble of all. Balancing was not that difficult, but he always worried he would slip just enough and crash painfully to the main floor. One morning he was practicing walking up and down the main staircase, slowly, surely, when a flurry of footsteps and petticoats descended towards him. He gripped the wooden rail hard.

"Good morning, Thomas!"

"My apologies for blocking your way, Lady Sybil."

"It's no trouble," she said, footsteps and voice moving away at a dizzying pace.

"Are you off to work?" he called after her.

"Yes, and I'm late."

She descended half the stairs, and he leaned against the balustrade. "Could I come with you?"

"What?" She stopped.

"I won't be trouble. Maybe I'll make some of the poor fools feel better, because no matter what's botherin' them, they've got workin' eyes."

Thomas could almost feel her staring. He wasn't used to begging, and she had never seen him do it, he was sure.

"Please let me come with you. It's madness staying alone in this big house."

And so she let him.

The hospital was filled with the light sounds of voices and other human noises, like Thomas's memories of the hospitals in France. Thomas found the sounds comforting, though he refused to dwell on why that may be.

"Who's this with you, Lady Sybil?" Dr. Clarkson said. Thomas noticed for the first time how his voice lilted, an almost whimsical sound.

"You remember Thomas, Doctor Clarkson?" Lady Sybil said.

"This is Thomas?" Thomas heard the creaking of floorboards, as Dr. Clarkson's voice approached them.

"I asked her to bring me, Dr. Clarkson, sir. I didn't want to spend another day alone," Thomas said.

"I suppose I'll allow it," he said.

"You'll sit over here, is that all right?" Sybil said, leading Thomas across the long, long room. He measured it carefully with his strides, resisting the urge to swing his cane.

"There's an open chair next to our newest arrivals." Thomas heard the scrape of a chair against the grimy wood floor. He reached out and let Sybil guide his hand.

"I need to leave you here, Thomas."

"Of course," he said. When Sybil's stride melted into the noise of the room, he heard a groan from next to him.

"You alright over there?" Thomas asked.

"No, I'm not bloody all right," the gentleman snapped. Thomas thought he recognized the voice. His heart bounced off of his ribs. The voice lined up with images in Thomas's head, the burning letter, the cigarette fading to ash in Edward's hand, and his lovely, lovely face.

"What's the problem?" Thomas said.

"Are you a doctor?" the Edward Courtenay asked him.

"I used to be a medic in the war, and I was a right good one... not much use now, but I can talk to you, if you like."

"Are you a guest of Nurse Sybil?"

"Yes, I am. I used to work at the big house."

"What did you do for work?"

"I was a footman," Thomas said, wondering if Courtenay thought less or more of him for it.

"You were a footman and became a medic in the war, and now… you're blind?"

"Yes."

"It's a bit of an odd story."

"Believe me, no one knows that more than I do," Thomas said.

Edward grew quiet and lay back against his cot. The springs creaked. "I took a piece of shrapnel to the leg.They got out most of it in France, but they wanted to bring me home for the major surgery. Either they'll succeed, and I'll be shipped back to battle or there goes my dance card for the rest of my life." The bed creaked again. "To be honest," Edward whispered, and Thomas leaned closer to him. "I don't know if I should hope for them to bungle it or not. He pulled away. "That was… Sorry, I want to pull through and go back to the Front. I'm very tired, and the pain is distracting."

"It's not cowardly to want out of a bad war, sir," Thomas whispered.

"That's a kind thing to say," Edward said. "But of course I didn't mean what I said.

I'm very tired."

"Of course, sir."

"What's your name?"

"Corporal Barrow. We met in France. You're Lieutenant Courtenay."

"Corporal Barrow?"

"Thomas," Sybil said as her shoes came to a stop in front of his chair. "How are you and Lieutenant Courtenay getting on?"

"Well, thank you," Edward said.

When the sounds of her shoes disappeared into the crowd again, Edward whispered. "You saved my life."

"What?" Thomas said.

"They told me a man named Thomas Barrow saved my life." Too much time passed before he seemed to breathe again. "Was that you?"

"I think so, sir."

"How?"

What do you mean by 'how'?"

"How did you save my life? I don't want you taking credit for something you didn't do."

"You… um… there was a gas attack when and I saw you passed out in the trench, and you didn't have a mask on. So I took off my mask, and gave it to you. I found another for myself," Thomas said.

"But you didn't get it on soon enough and went blind because of it?"

"Well…" Thomas hesitated.

"Please don't lie to me," Edward said.

Thomas had nothing to say. His hands gripped his cane.

"You did a foolish thing. I could have been dead or dying."

"I knew you weren't."

"You couldn't have known such a thing."

Edward shifted on his bed, and if Thomas had any sense of things, he knew had turned away.


	5. Chapter 5

Thomas did not go to the hospital the next day, and he did not go the day after. He stayed in his room and received his meals there. Even Sarah O'Brien did not come by, and he was glad of it. If he needed to resolve himself to a life of loneliness, it would best start now.

A knock on his door came three days after his visit to the hospital.

"Corporal Barrow, are you awake?" Lady Sybil asked.

"Yes, I am," Thomas said, still lying in bed. William had set his breakfast tray on his lap half an hour ago, but still, he had not touched it.

"Are you coming to the hospital today?"

"I'm sorry, Lady Sybil, but no good will come of that. I am sorry."

"I understand, but Lieutenant Courtenay asked after you yesterday. I think he was afraid something he said upset you?"

Thomas sat up, nearly overturning his breakfast tray.

"Just come by to reassure him that all's well, if nothing else."

"Of – of course," Thomas said, setting the tray to one side of his bed. "Let me get dressed." He fumbled with the drawers on the dresser only to remember that William had set out his uniform the night before. He dressed as best he could, knowing there must be a button out of place somewhere.

Sybil didn't offer him her arm this time as they walked together, and Thomas appreciated the gesture.

"If we walk to town enough together, you'll soon be able to go on your own," Sybil said when they left the house. Thomas refrained from informing her that he knew that. "It would drive me mad if I had no independence to come and go as I pleased," she said.

"It's not so bad," Thomas lied.

When they arrived at the hospital, Sybil lead Thomas to the chair next to Lieutenant Courtenay's bed.

"Corporal Barrow?" Edward asked.

"Yes?" Thomas said and sat down.

The man next to him cleared his throat. "How are you?"

"I'm well, thanks."

"I am truly sorry for what I said to you," Edward said, his words short and clipped.

"I've said all kinds of things I end up regretting," Thomas said in reply.

"You saved my life."

"I don't know about that."

"You saved my life, and I was unkind to you because of it. I'm bitter, and it's not your fault."

When he said nothing more, Thomas cleared his throat. "Is that all?"

"What?"

"Is that what you wanted to say to me, sir?"

"Yes… I - I suppose so…"

Thomas braced his cane against the ground.

"But…" The bedsprings creaked as Edward moved. "You… can stay, if you like."

Thomas sat again, his heart leaping in his chest. "I have nowhere else to be." He leaned his cane against the wall. "What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't quite know," Edward said.

"Do you know when Clarkson will operate on your leg?" Thomas asked.

"Tomorrow. It should be a simple procedure. I'll be back in fighting shape in no time." He sounded terribly sad about it.

Thomas changed the subject. "Who's Jack?"

"I beg your pardon?" Edward snapped.

Thomas realized he might have crossed an invisible line. "When I first met you in the trenches, you burned a letter and said," he lowered his voice, "'Fuck you, Jack.'"

Edward didn't say anything for a full minute. "He's my little brother," he said finally and firmly. "He's reassured me that the farm is in good hands if I don't come back or if I return too wounded to work."

Thomas felt sick. "That's the worst thing in the world, isn't it? Pity disguised as kindness?"

"When you met me, he'd just written saying that I shouldn't worry about mother, that he and Lisa were taking good care of her and the farm in my absence."

"Who's Lisa?"

"His wife." Edward lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know it's unkind of me to say, but it seemed as though he didn't even want me to come home."

"I'm sure that's not true!" Thomas said.

"Running the farm is what he's always wanted, and if I come out of this lame or dead, he'll get it."

"I thought that only happened in books: brothers scheming to take each other's inheritance."

"Jack doesn't scheme. He smiles and people give him what he wants. He's steady and he's capable. Always has been more than me," Edward muttered.

"I have a hard time believing that, sir," Thomas said, trying to keep the admiration from his voice.

"I wish he'd mess up at something, just to knock him from his high horse… you don't know the feeling, I'm sure."

"You would be surprised," Thomas said.

"He's even a better soldier than me. I was never very good."

"It seemed to me you did fine." _He ended up unconscious in the middle of a gas attack, Thomas, you daft fool._

"The thing is, neither Jack nor I could come out of his alive, you know… I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't want to hear about this."

Thomas could hear the tension in Edward's voice, and wanted badly to hold him, to stroke his hair… "You can tell me anything you like," he said instead.

"Thank you."

"Tell me about the farm."

"The house is two stories, a big, sprawling place. Much smaller than Downton, if I've got a sense of it, but still large. Acres of farmland and wilderness. You can get lost on the moors if you go out there at night. I miss it."

"Then you'll be glad to be going home?"

Edward said nothing. Thomas worried he might have offended him, but the silence between them felt easy and comfortable, the hum of voices and movement in the hospital seemingly far in the distance. For the first time since he returned from France, Thomas felt happy just existing.

A pair of footsteps detached themselves from the crowd and came to rest in front of him. "Barrow?"

"Lady Sybil?"

"My father wants a word with you."

"Up at the house? Now?" Thomas heard the bitterness in his voice. "You're not leaving work to take me back?"

"No, William is."

Thomas's back straightened.

"What's this about?" Edward Courtenay asked.

Another set of footsteps followed Lady Sybil's. "I'm ready to take you home if you're ready to go, Thomas."

Thomas considered whacking the boy across the knees with his cane. _No, I'm not bloody ready._

"I'm sorry, Edw – Lieutenant Courtenay. I don't know what this is about."

"Mr. Crawley said that you would. I explained to him that you just came down to the hospital because Sybil asked you to."

Thomas really was tempted to hit him then, but he might have hit Sybil instead, and what would Lieutenant Courtenay think of him then?

He turned towards Edward. "I'm sorry. I will be back tomorrow, I promise."

Edward said nothing.

"Come on, Thomas!" William said, wrapping one arm around Thomas's. Thomas couldn't help but flinch, but he didn't pull away.

"I promise you I'll be back, Edward. I promise." He let himself be pulled away.

On the walk back to Downton, William cheerfully asked. "Looks like you've made a friend back there?"

"Please shut up."

To William's credit, he did, only walked and held Thomas's arm until they reached the library.

"William! So good to see you," Lord Grantham said.

"I'll be getting back to Carson unless there's anything else you require, sir."

"No, that'll be all, William. Thank you."

William left Thomas standing alone.

"Hello, Thomas, good to see you."

"Likewise, sir," Thomas said, knowing that if Lord Grantham gave that two seconds' thought, he would be very uncomfortable. But he did not seem to notice.

"I was hoping you could provide me with the address of your closest kin. Or perhaps a friend? Someone who can take care of you when you leave here."

"Sir?"

"Well, you don't want to stay at Downton forever, now do you?" he laughed.

Thomas's stomach sank. "No, sir."

"Do you know of anyone to whom you could appeal for support? I'll write them all on your behalf."

"I…" Thomas realized he hadn't give much thought to where he would go after his stay at Downton. Last he heard from his family, his mother had been staying with Juliet, and he doubted she wanted someone else living on her charity. And he would rather return to the trenches blind than ask his father for help.

"I have two elder siblings, a sister Juliet and a brother Samuel, but it's been years since I've heard from them. They live up North. I'll ask Carson if he has an address for them."

"Excellent. Is there anyone else?"

"No."

"Alright, thank you, Thomas."

He knew from the tone of Lord Grantham's voice when he was dismissed.

"Well, there's someone I met in France." Thomas felt his heart beating fast. He felt presumptuous. "Major Ernest Devereux."

"Do you have an address for him?"

"No," his stomach sank again. "He lives in London. You could try the Army offices? He was wounded in action, and should be in England… that is… if he made it home. His wife's name is Celia."

"I'll do what I can," Lord Grantham said, but in his voice was the unmistakable sound of duty, a sign that he would do what was asked of him because it was the right thing, not because it would work.

"Thank you, sir." Thomas walked back the way he and William had come. He bumped into the wall once before finding the door to the grand hall and then walking out the front door.

He stood in the sunlight, intending to go right back to the hospital and apologize to Lieutenant Courtenay, but he did not know the way.

The following morning, Thomas woke to feel the warmth of sunlight spreading across his bed. The bright glare hurt his eyes, and he put his head beneath the pillow and willed himself to sleep again. His eyes felt bleary – even sightless, they could plague him when he had not slept. But unlike his days as a servant, he need not get up. He had nowhere to be today, did he?

As it often did when Thomas tried to sleep, Edward Courtenay's face came to mind, illuminated by Thomas's lighter in the trenches. The image, however, was less and less distinct every time he thought of it. This time he could not remember the shape of his lips. Perhaps one of these days he could ask Edward if he could touch his face, and then he would remember.

Thomas imagined that face, flawed as his memory made it, saying everything Edward had said yesterday. The constructed memory made his heart beat fast with joy, until it was interrupted even in his imagination by William's chipper voice. This time Thomas allowed himself to whack the boy across the knees with his cane. It was his imagination, after all. Then he was being pulled away and saying "I promise."

Thomas threw the bedclothes off the bed and dressed as quickly as he could. His jacket was open when he raced down the front stairs and out the door. To his own shock, he remembered the way. He heard people clearing the path ahead of him, muttering to each other behind his back about how crazy he looked. He wanted to give them a piece of his mind, but he could not stop now. He reached the front door of the hospital and knocked.

The door opened.

"Yes, hello?" a woman's voice said.

"How is he?"

"Who?"

"Lieu - lieutenant Courtenay." Thomas panted, resting his hands on his knees.

"Well. He hasn't woken up yet, still under the anesthesia."

"Can I – can you show me where he is?"

"Lemme take him there," another nurse said, taking Thomas's arm. She led him in a half circle around the hospital.

"Here he is." She guided Thomas's hand to the back of a stiff chair.

Thomas sank into it. "Thank you, miss."

"You're the one he likes, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?" Thomas said, certain he had misheard.

"I mean, you're the one he talks to."

"The one?" Thomas wrinkled his brow. "The only one?"

"Oh, he talks to us nurses well enough, but not to the other men. Sure he hasn't been here but a few days, but usually the men bond quickly. Their lives being in the same hands 'n all. But not Courtenay. Kept to himself."

"Oh."

"I think it's good… for him to have another man to talk to."

Edward sighed heavily and stirred on his cot.

"I'll leave you two alone."

Thomas waited he knew not how long until Edward stirred. "Mm… ouch, fuck… Corporal Barrow!" he sounded surprised.

"How are you feeling, lieutenant?"

"You kept your promise," Edward said.

"How are you feeling?" Thomas repeated.

"In pain," he tried to laugh.

A set of footsteps approached. "Good to see you awake, Courtenay," Clarkson said. "I'm pleased to report your surgery was successful. You'll walk again for sure."

"That's wonderful!" Thomas said.

"I'd advise you to stay here a few days, at least, as you get back on your feet. You're a very lucky man." The footsteps left them alone again.

"Lucky…" Edward murmured. "I'm lucky…" He sounded as though he were drifting off again.

"I didn't come yesterday because Lady Sybil asked me to!" Thomas said impulsively. "I thought you would have hated to see me, that's why I stayed away." Thomas cleared his throat. "I won't stay now if you don't want me to."

Edward reached out and took his hand. Thomas's heart skipped a beat.

"Thank you, Barrow. Would you stay?"

"It would be my pleasure." He held Edward's hand in both of his and waited until he drifted off to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Thomas returned to the hospital every day in the weeks that followed. He sat in the chair next to Edward's bed, and they talked.

Thomas told him that he left home at the age of nineteen for a career in service. "My father wanted me to stay and continue his clock-making business, but…"

"But what?" Edward asked.

"We had a falling out. It happened a long time ago."

"Do you miss it?"

"I dunno. We never much got along before that."

"Not your father, the clocks. Making something like that with your own hands, it must be so different from anything else in the world."

It had been. "I liked service well enough. When I was in France, it seemed a thousand miles away, and I wanted nothing more than to come back."

Today Edward smelled clean and fresh and strongly of the soap the hospital used. Thomas guessed that he'd only just finished bathing before he arrived and wondered if his hair was still wet to the touch.

"Do you miss Oxford?" Thomas asked.

"Four years was enough, and I was happy to leave." Edward said nothing for a moment, and Thomas was content to listen to his breath. He never minded the silences between them and would guess what Edward was doing at that moment, how his legs were arranged on the bed, how he held his hands. He filled so much of his mind with these pictures that the silence was as full as any conversation.

Edward sighed. "It would be nice, wouldn't it, to live in a place where all the mattered was old history and Greek translations, but no one can live that way."

The next day, Thomas brought him breakfast from the Abbey, freshly baked biscuits and jam. "Why was your younger brother at home while you were in France?" he asked when Edward had finished.

"He was on leave when our father passed away." A sound like brushing crumbs off of his uniform. "I was at the front. He took care of the family and managed the funeral. The army allowed him to stay."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. He manages my inheritance better than I ever could. I'm afraid going home would mean a disappointment to them all."

Thomas could have reassured Edward that no one would ever be disappointed in him, but he knew that would be a kind of lie. He did not know Jack Courtenay or the rest or exactly who they wanted Edward to be.

Sybil and the other nurses took Edward on walks around the hospital grounds as the days went on. Edward would come back winded and hot – as he claimed – from the effort and Thomas imagined he could feel the heat of his skin in the air between them.

"If we run out of things to talk about, I could always read you the paper?" Edward said breathlessly one day.

An image came unbidden to Thomas's mind, himself sitting in bed next to Edward, the morning's paper open on his knees. He'd rest his head on Edward's shoulder, and Edward would wrap an arm around his waist. "That would be nice," he said.

Edward lay back on his bed, and the sheets rustled.

"You really are a kind soul, Thomas."

"I'm really not," Thomas said.

When Sybil walked him home that night, she told him, "Lieutenant Courtenay is improving remarkably. I think it's in part thanks to you."

"Really?" Thomas fought the urge to grin smugly.

"You're a good friend to him."

She would not think so well of him if she knew the way he thought of Edward at night. His mind filled of its own accord with images of Edward pulling his uniform from his slender body, impossibly graceful, impossibly beautiful. But even in his thoughts, Thomas could not reach out to touch him.

The following morning Edward was silent and brooding when Thomas arrived.

"What's wrong?" Thomas asked.

"Another letter from Jack," Edward said.

"D'ya want me to burn this one?" Thomas asked.

"No." Edward folded the paper, and it crinkled. "I'll keep it."

"You sound sullen," Thomas said

"I am."

"Why?" Thomas knew it was a stupid question.

"I'd…" Edward took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "I'd rather… rather anything than… than go back to the Front," he whispered. "Jack's already acting as if I've died, and I hate it. I hate him. I know they're awful things to say."

"No," Thomas said, and reached out to him. His hand landed on Edward's leg. He was seated sideways on his bed, facing Thomas's chair straight on. Thomas's breath caught in his throat. "You shouldn't have to go back. It's not fair," he whined.

"The world is unfair, Thomas. No point in trying to change that." Edward laid his hand on top of Thomas's.

They sat together in silence.

On his way out of the hospital that night, Thomas stopped at the door to Dr. Clarkson's office. "He'll be back in the field in a month, at the longest," he heard the doctor's voice saying. "No sense keeping him here if he's healed. He should be sent on to Farley Hall or to stay with his family until he's called to the front again."

Two weeks after Edward's operation, the hospital was in a bustle.

"Taking in new patients," Edward explained. "That means I'll be gone soon."

"I'm sorry," Thomas said.

Edward said nothing.

Sybil's fast footsteps stopped at the foot of his bed. "I'm sorry no one's been free to walk with you today, Edward."

"I can walk on my own, Nurse Crawley."

"I could go with him," Thomas said before he could stop himself.

"Excuse me?" Sybil asked politely.

"You're blind," Edward said.

"If… if you can walk on your own, you can walk on my arm, can't you?" Thomas could think only of the day he came to the hospital only to be told that Lieutenant Courtenay was gone. Whenever that day came, it would be too soon, and he wanted to soak up every minute with Edward that he could in the time they had together.

"I suppose so…" Edward said.

"I'll leave you two alone," Sybil said. "Try not to get hurt."

Even through the bustle of the hospital, the silence between them felt rich and heavy, thick enough to cut. He stood and held his arm out to Edward. "Well, shall we?"

Edward took his hand, and when they were both standing, looped his arm through Thomas's. He swayed for a minute, before picking up a cane. Thomas waved his own cane ahead of them and they walked slowly through the hospital and into the sunlit garden. Thomas tilted his face up to the sky, shades of yellow and red playing across his eyes.

Edward sighed. "Look at us. A pair of old men with their canes." When they had gone twenty paces from the hospital, Thomas realized that though Edward's cane swung with his every step, he did not need it. His gait was smooth and easy.

"You're doing well," Thomas said.

"Don't tell them, please," Edward whispered against his cheek. He leaned his head on Thomas's shoulder, and Thomas's heart skipped a beat. He stopped swinging his cane and stopped counting his paces. A breathless moment later, his right foot slid out from underneath him when the lawn dipped. His legs collapsed, and he pulled Edward down with him.

Thomas took him by the shoulders. "Are you all right?" he said. "Your ankle, it's…"

"Fine," Edward said. He seemed to be laughing, his chest rising and falling. "That was stupid." He snorted.

"It was." Thomas smiled at him and started to laugh as well. "The lame leading the blind…"

"No, the blind leading the lame. And falling down."

Thomas snorted and lay back in the grass next to Edward, laughing harder than he had in weeks. "You want to get up?"

"No. The ground is soft. Better than the hospital bed, I think," Edward said and sighed.

When their laugher faded to silence, Thomas braced himself. "Have you thought about where you're going to go when you leave Downton Hospital?" he asked tentatively.

"I suppose I'll go to Farley Hall. I don't want to, but it's better than going home only to leave again," Edward said. "I wish I could stay here…" His breath was cool and gentle as a breeze across Thomas's cheek. In that moment, Thomas knew exactly where his mouth was, knew he could cross the distance with absolute precision and kiss the sweet breath from Edward's lips.

Thomas wished they could stay that way forever.

The next morning, he found Dr. Clarkson and asked him how much longer Lieutenant Courtenay would be staying. "I know new patients arrived yesterday," he said.

"I think he should be leaving this week," the doctor said. His lilting, pleasant voice made the news all the more awful. "And not because we're full. He made some remarkable strides yesterday, after you left."

Thomas nodded. "May I see him now?"

"Perhaps in a short while? He has a visitor at the moment."

Thomas recognized the soft laughter from the next room. Without even bidding Dr. Clarkson a good day, he crossed the room to the foot of Edward's bed.

"You are quite a charming man, Lieutenant," Lady Edith said. "Thomas!" She sounded startled. "Sybil," she called across the room. "What's he doing here?"

"Thomas has been coming with me to the hospital for weeks now," Sybil said from close by. "He and Lieutenant Courtenay are good friends."

"Really?"

"It's good to see you, Thomas," Edward said./p

"I suppose this means you won't object that I've invited the lieutenant to dinner tonight?" Edith asked.

It took Thomas too long to realize that her words were meant for him. "I… I don't eat dinner with the family, so it should not matter to me."

"Well, we're having Captain Crawley and Lavinia and everything, I can't see why another guest would be such a burden," Edith explained cheerfully.

"Then Thomas should join us, too," Sybil said.

"Why?"

"Because he's such good friends with Lieutenant Courtenay. Besides, I think it's wrong that he's stayed at Downton so long and never sat with us for a meal."

"All right," Edith said primly. Then, "Your family sounds horrid, lieutenant."

She and Edward continued their conversation, and Sybil moved on to other hospital beds. With his sight or without it, Thomas knew when he had become invisible, and so he left the hospital alone.

That afternoon Downton was consumed in a riot of activity in preparation for Captain Crawley's arrival.

Thomas walked to the edge of the banister overlooking the great hall, listening to the bustle of the household staff. His hands itched for something to do.

He recognized Sarah O'Brien's heavy footfalls as soon as he heard them, trying to be as silent as they could against the carpet.

"What are you doing lurking up here, O'Brien? Aren't you supposed to be helping?"

"As if I get a moment to myself," she said, coming to stand next to him. "Havin' Captain Crawley and Mary in the same house again will be a treat. Sorry I don't get to see it."

Thomas grinned. "I will. In a manner of speaking."

"Don't say things like that, Thomas Barrow."

"I'm allowed a joke at my own expense, you old hag," he said sweetly. He knew she was looking intently at him, and wished he could return the unsettling memories of her gaze. Instead he settled on smirking and leaning on the railing in what he hoped was a careless manner.

"We've got a new arrival in the staff," she said.

"Who?"

"A Mr. Lang. He's the new valet. Mr. Bates left."

"Oh really?" Thomas smiled. "I thought I heard a strange voice, but no one bothered to introduce us, so I figured that he wasn't important enough."

"You'll keep your cheek to yourself at dinner with the family, won't you?"

"I'm shocked, O'Brien! After all our time together, you tell me to be polite to the family?"

"They'll throw you out on your arse," she muttered.

"They can't," Thomas said. "I'm a wounded veteran."

She left without another word, and Thomas felt dissatisfied. He found her new sincerity disconcerting and did not know what to do with it. Was he forbidden from a joke or two or forbidden from ill behavior now that he was blind? And who was Sarah O'Brien to tell him so?

"Thomas!" Edward called.

Thomas's heart skipped a beat. Were guests arriving for dinner already? He waved in what he hoped was the appropriate direction, and began to walk down the stairs. He heard fast footsteps across the carpeting, and then Edward was at his side, holding his free arm.

Thomas felt himself blushing. "You don't need to do that," he nearly snapped.

"I want to help," Edward said, but his words were heavy, as if dampened with something Thomas could not identify. It was not sadness, nor anger. Perhaps a kind of defeat. Resignation.

"All right," Thomas said. He handed Edward his cane, took his hand from off the banister, and laid it on Edward's. Remarkably, they did not fall.

"Captain Crawley and Lavinia Swire," Carson announced before Thomas and Edward reached the bottom of the steps.

The hall filled with the noise of introductions and pleasantries. Thomas hardly heard, his heart was beating so loudly.

"So good to see you again, Lavinia," Lady Mary said.

"I feel like I've missed something," Edward whispered to him.

Thomas leaned close. "Matthew – Captain Crawley – asked Mary to marry him before the war. She turned him down, but later wanted him back again. Now he's engaged to Lavinia, and she's engaged to a man named Richard Carlyle."

"Mmm," Edward said. "Complicated. That's how love is, isn't it?"

Thomas wanted to reply that Mary and Matthew should never be used as a standard to measure normal behavior, when Matthew addressed him directly.

"Thomas! I did not think to see you here."

"I had nowhere else to go after my time in France," Thomas said. "Lord Grantham has generously allowed me to stay here as I contact friends and relations."

"That is generous of him," Matthew said. "And you are?"

"This is Lieutenant Edward Courtenay," Edith cut in.

Edward dropped Thomas's arm. "It's a pleasure, Captain Crawley."

They proceeded into the library, where Edith took Edward away by herself. Thomas tried to listen to anything but the snatches of their conversation – about Oxford and silly younger siblings. He thought he would sit alone with his awkwardness until dinner when he felt someone sit next to him on the divan.

"Now tell me, Thomas," Matthew Crawley said, "What that lieutenant fellow is doing here. Did Edith drag him to dinner? And if so, from where?"

"He was a patient at the hospital," Thomas said, "I think they met when Edith went down to visit Sybil. He's a nice man."

"You know him, too?"

"I visited the hospital as well."

"They make a handsome couple."

Thomas's hand tightened on his cane, but he thought of Sarah O'Brien's warning and held his tongue.

"To be honest, Thomas, I didn't think I'd see you here, on the other side," Matthew said.

"Didn't look likely at the time, sir," Thomas said.

"If there's ever anything I can do for you…" For a moment, Matthew trailed off. "Please let me know."

"Thank you, sir," Thomas said.


	7. Chapter 7

At dinner, Edward sat on Thomas's left side and Edith on his right. Thomas had thought it would be difficult to start a conversation with the family, but he never even had a chance to try.

"May I ask what brings you here, Lieutenant Courtenay?" Mrs. Crawley asked.

Edward cleared his throat. "I've been recovering from my wounds at Downton hospital, and Lady Edith invited me to dinner."

"It's wonderful to see meet another officer here in Downton," Matthew said.

Thomas wondered for a moment if Lord Grantham were not an officer himself.

One of the footmen came to a stop next to Thomas, but before he could serve Thomas, Edward turned in his chair. "Let me," he said, reached out, and placed what smelled like asparagus on Thomas's plate.

"Thank you," Thomas said.

Now that all attention was on him, he wished it were elsewhere.

"I will be headed back to the Front after this," Edward said, as if he could sense Thomas's discomfort, "so naturally I'm not eager to leave here."

"You're not?" Edith asked.

"It's… it's a wonderful cause, but…"

Thomas wanted to take Edward's hand, or in some way rescue him from the sentence he was stuck in.

"Matthew is going on a tour of the country before he returns to the Front," Mrs. Crawley said, as if eager to fill the silence. "Recruiting new volunteers."

"Where are you headed to next, Matthew?" Sybil asked.

"I plan on spending the next few days recruiting in Yorkshire. I leave Downton on Wednesday morning."

"Three whole days?" Mary asked. Her voice sounded strained. "Are you and Lavinia going to be in Downton for three days?"

"We won't bother you," Lavinia said. "I also have business in town."

"You won't bother me," Mary said.

"Would you care to join me, Lieutenant?" Matthew asked.

"What?" Edward said.

"Perhaps it might do you good to remind you of why we're fighting. I find it all too easy to forget, thinking about home, about my family, and about Lavinia."

"You shouldn't," Lavinia said, "I want nothing more than for you to do the right thing."

"You should!" Mrs. Crawley said.

"Who should what?" Lord Grantham said.

"You, Lieutenant Courtenay, should join my son," she clarified.

"I'd need to ask my commanding officers..." Edward trailed off.

"You do that!" Mrs. Crawley sounded satisfied.

The talk turned to Lavinia and Matthew's engagement, and throughout it all, Edward was silent. There was a heaviness about this silence. Though the sounds of silver scraping porcelain came from his left, Thomas imagined Edward simply staring across the table, unblinking.

William served Thomas his main course.

Finished with the engagement talk, the group finally turned to him, the blind elephant in the room.

"It is… good to see you back at the Abbey, Thomas."

Thomas felt smugly happy that his presence upset even Isobel Crawley's cheeriness.

"It's much preferable to the servants' quarters," he said.

Thomas thought he heard Mr. Carson gasp. Things must be dire indeed if the butler was serving at dinner.

"Do you know where you will go?" Matthew asked. "Or will you stay here at Downton?"

"I will move in with family," Thomas lied. "Thank you for asking."

Beneath the chatter that began at the other end of the table, Thomas could hear Edith whisper, "Yes, but he was a stretcher-bearer, not brave like our Matthew."

"What an unkind thing to say, Edith," Sybil whispered back.

Thomas heard no evidence that anyone outside the three of them, and Edward, heard what she said. Beneath the table, Edward took his hand. Thomas's heart skipped a beat.

Edith leaned closer to Sybil. "I didn't mean he wasn't brave. I meant – "

But before Edith could explain herself, a metallic crash came from the other side of the room.

"Heavens!" Mary said. "Carson, are you all right?"

Edith sprang to her feet. "Oh my god!"

Carson's heavy footsteps crossed the room. "I… I do apologize, my lady, I … get… Mr. Lang, get a c..." But before he could finish his sentence, he collapsed. In an instant, the dining room was on its feet.

"Carson, it's all right. Everything will be fine," Mary said soothingly.

"Edith, go with Branson and telephone Major Clarkson. I'll telephone and explain what's happened," Mrs Crawley said.

"What about my dress?" Edith whined.

Thomas smiled, happy that Edward had had the chance to see Edith at her worst – selfish and concerned about her clothing. Someone must have spilling something on it.

Edward took Thomas's hand, and led him away from the table.

"What's happened?" Thomas asked.

"One of the footmen dropped gravy on Lady Edith and – "

Thomas snorted in laughter.

"Is that funny?" Edward asked.

"No." Thomas knew that if Edward saw him at his worst, Lady Edith would seem an angel in comparison, no matter what selfish things she had said tonight.

"Lady Sybil and I will take him upstairs if Mrs. Hughes will show us the way, please," Matthew was saying.

"I can help," Mary said.

"No, let me, I know what I'm doing," said Sybil.

"What happened to Carson?" Thomas asked.

"He collapsed. A heart attack?"

Thomas felt his stomach fall. Carson was old, and could easily kill himself with his own ridiculous devotion to propriety. Thomas did not feel any sympathy for the old man. He simply did not want to live in a house with death in it.

Through the chatter, Thomas heard Mrs. Hughes hiss, "Mr. Lang… Mr. Lang!"

He'd be deep in trouble for what he did, accident though it most surely was.

"Lady Grantham," Edward said, "I was going to take Thomas upstairs, if I may."

"You'll stay the night, I hope," Cora said. "Before leaving on tour with Matthew… If that's allowed of course! Would it be?"

"I'll telegraph in the morning. Come on, Thomas," Edward said and led him from the kitchen and up the stairs.

"Are you all right?" Thomas asked when they were out of earshot.

"I'm worried."

"About our butler?"

"It's not Carson I'm concerned about," Edward said.

"Who, then?"

"The other footman, the older one. Mr. Lang."

"Miss. O'Brien mentioned him."

They walked along the gallery until they reached Thomas's door

"This is where I leave you?" Edward asked.

"Yes." Thomas brushed the end of his cane on the floor, trying to think of some way to prolong their conversation. "They should get you sorted in a room for the night. Are you hungry? Your dinner's been ruined."

"I'm fine," Edward said. He stayed still, and the floorboards creaked. Thomas imagined him rising onto his toes, like he had the night they met in the trenches. He thought for a moment that something might happen. Edward cleared his throat. "Goodnight, Thomas."

Thomas woke in middle of the night, hot and with his ears ringing. When the noise in his head faded away, it was replaced with sobbing, so quiet it seemed to come from another world.

Thomas pushed aside the bedclothes and opened the door to his room. The sound was louder out here. He began to walk as quietly as he could through the upstairs of Downton, dressed only in his pajamas. He wandered the halls in blackness, reaching out into the air, but could not locate the sound. It was almost ephemeral; every time he thought he reached its source, it faded away, only to begin again when he was far away.

Another set of footsteps joined his. He knew whom they belonged to from the sound – familiar heavy footfalls and familiar jangling keys.

"Mrs. Hughes? You're up this late?"

"I could say the same thing about you, Thomas. I was tending to Mr. Carson. What are you doing?"

"I heard someone crying."

"Isis?"

"No, a person. I heard a person crying."

"You heard nothing of the sort, I'm sure."

"But…"

"Please go to bed, Thomas. We've had enough accidents for the night. It wouldn't do to have you falling down in the dark."

"It's always dark for me, Mrs. Hughes."

She had nothing to say for a moment, and simply shuffled her feet. "Please go to bed."

Her footsteps departed.

He did.


	8. Chapter 8

Thomas woke late the next morning and lay in bed half in dreaming, remembering the sounds of crying, the bizarre dinner the night before. His stomach grumbled. The conversation last night… Matthew had wanted Edward to come with him…

The sound of the front door opening and closing came from the main hall. That might be Matthew… and Edward might be leaving with him…

Had he missed his chance to say goodbye? Thomas scrambled from his bed and ran to the rail overlooking the main hall, never mind he was barefoot and in pajamas.

"Good morning, Thomas," William said from next to him.

"Have they left?"

"Has who left?"

"Captain Crawley and the Lieutenant."

"Yes, this morning!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Thomas demanded.

"I… didn't know it was important."

Thomas could feel William retreating.

"Can I catch up to them?" Thomas asked. "Has their train already left?"

"They're at a rally in Ripon. They'll be back by dinnertime, Thomas."

"Oh…" Thomas relinquished his grip on the railing. As he relaxed, he recognized a boisterous laugh from the hall below.

"Thomas! Thomas, don't tell me you don't remember me?"

"Major Devereux?"

"Come downstairs! I'm yelling in a grand house that isn't even mine!"

"I'm not dressed."

"Bother that!"

Thomas went down the stairs slowly, trying not to fumble around and look a fool without his cane. When he reached the bottom step, Ernest took his arm to steady him and then embraced him.

"It's so good to see you, Thomas. I am so glad you wrote to me. Cecelia and I would love to have you stay with us."

"I don't want to be a bother," Thomas said.

"We need the company," Ernest clapped a hand on Thomas's shoulder. "I was just about to join Lord Grantham in the library."

"I should get dressed, then."

Ernest started to laugh.

"What is it?"

"Imagine the look on Lord Grantham's face if you didn't?"

Thomas, instead of finding the image amusing, felt himself grow tense. He had no love for Downton Abbey, but breaking too many of the house's rules filled him with discomfort.

"Give me a minute," Thomas said, and he went back up the stairs, William trailing in his wake.

Ernest's cane tapped on the carpeting as he walked to the library.

Thomas dressed quickly with William's help, into his uniform. Thomas did not know why William had picked it out instead of the civilian clothes he had worn, borrowed from the family, for the past few weeks, but he could not think of a reason to object.

When he entered the library, Ernest and Lord Grantham were in the midst of discussion.

"So you have left your estates for good?" Lord Grantham was asking.

William led Thomas to the side of a couch, and Thomas sat down there next to Ernest.

"My wife and I were too happy to sell. I can't understand the appeal of country life. So much work, and the benefits… don't seem important.

"Hmm…" Lord Grantham muttered and sipped his tea.

"Your house is lovely, though, and you've kept it in tip-top shape, even despite the war."

"Thank you."

"How do you know Thomas, may I ask?"

Thomas felt Lord Grantham hesitate, allowing him to answer that question himself, in case he should not wish to out himself as a former servant.

"I worked in service here," Thomas said. "I was first footman."

"Are you proud of it, Thomas?" Lord Grantham asked.

"I am, sir. Just because I wanted from life more doesn't mean I wasn't proud to work here."

Thomas felt sick to his stomach suddenly. He would give anything to have the chance to do even such a menial job again. He might never work another day in his life. It surprised him that he longed for work, of all that he had lost along with his sight.

"Did you know that Thomas has another friend staying here? We're using all our guest bedrooms." Lord Grantham chuckled.

"Oh really? Shall I have to fight to take him home with me?"

"He's a lieutenant who was recovering at our town's hospital. He's Lady Edith's friend just as much as he is Thomas's. I think she hopes to make a match of it," Lord Grantham said.

"Lieutenant Courtenay has just recovered from his wounds and will be headed to the Front this week," Thomas said.

"That's a shame," Ernest said.

In the presence of one man without a leg, and another without his sight, Lord Grantham said nothing to that.

"Why don't you show me around Downton Abbey, Thomas?" Ernest asked when the silence grew awkward.

"C-can he?" Lord Grantham asked.

"I remember this house like the back of my hand, sir," Thomas said as he rose and picked up his cane from where it leaned against the couch. "I know every room by heart. If we won't be bothering anyone…"

"Of course not," Lord Grantham said.

Thomas proceeded to lead Ernest from the library, into the small library, the drawing room, then the dining room. He walked slowly, knowing that Ernest depended on a cane of his own.

They paused at last in the morning room, where Thomas sat down on a chair against the wall. Daylight streamed in through the large windows, peppering Thomas's vision with red and gold.

"Do you know who any of the people are in any of these paintings?" Ernest asked, sitting down himself.

"I don't think even the family does," Thomas said.

After a pause, Ernest cleared his throat. His tone had become serious, almost somber. "I am glad you wrote to me, Thomas. I can't imagine what you're going through, and I promise to be as much of a help as I can."

"I won't be a burden?"

"Are you truly worried about that?"

"You are wounded, sir, and I don't know what kind of staff you have. I need more help than I'd like to admit."

"That won't be a problem."

"I hate it. Needing help. And I worry about not having a purpose, Ernest. May I call you Ernest?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat again. "May I ask why don't you want to stay here?"

"They don't want me."

"They might…" Ernest said, but he did not sound convinced.

"Staying at the Abbey is a reminder that I never achieved more than being a footman." Thomas wondered what had loosed his tongue. His heart beat fast at having told so much of the truth. He felt lightheaded. "And now I never will."

"You were a field medic!" Ernest said. "That's a noble profession."

Thomas clamped his mouth shut, lest he say that he'd only done that to avoid the draft. Glorious irony, that.

"Don't let anyone take that away from you. If called upon now, you could recite the remedies for a dozen ailments or wounds, even if you cannot now perform them yourself."

"But there's so much I can't do… that even professional medics can't fix."

"Is this about your friend? The wounded one?"

Thomas dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned towards Ernest. "Yes… I think he might be shell-shocked, or at least depressed. In either case, I don't know what to do. I want so much to help him, but I can't, and it's killing me. How you do help a man when you can't see his wounds?"

"He is very dear to you."

"My friends are always dear to me, Ernest."

"Well, then, I look forward to meeting him."

That happened over dinner that night, the dining room now as full as it had ever been, with the family, Matthew, Lavinia, Thomas, Edward, and Ernest, and minus the organizational eye of Carson.

Ernest, as usual, could be counted on to fill the silence.

"I heard you were recovering from wounds at the hospital in town?" he asked Edward, this time seated across the table, next to Edith, while Thomas sat next to Ernest.

"I was lame in one foot. I still rather am," Edward said lightly.

Ernest laughed. "Look at us: The dismembered, the blind, the lame… and Captain Crawley. The spoils of war."

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Devereux?" Lord Grantham asked.

Ernest must have been chastised by something on Lord Grantham's face. "Nothing, sir. Nothing at all."

"Last I heard, you were eager to join up, William," Matthew said to the footman. "But your father didn't want you to?"

"That doesn't matter," William said, his voice shaky from having been unexpectedly address by Lord Matthew over dinner. "I want to be just like you and Lieutenant Courtenay. A hero."

From around the table, everyone congratulated William in one way or another. Even Ernest. "Thomas? Aren't you proud of him?" Lord Grantham asked.

Thomas felt his throat closing up. "Yes. Yes, I am."

When the dinner was over, Edward did not seek him out, and Thomas felt his heart falling in his chest. He set up the stairs alone, still knowing that Lord Grantham's invitations to brandy after supper were mere pleansantries, and uncertain if he would be comfortable in such a crowd.

"Thomas?" he heard Edward's voice call softly, and Thomas turned so quickly on the stairs he almost toppled over.

"Yes?"

"Are you retiring for the night?"

"I'm tired," he lied.

"Let me walk you up." Edward climbed the steps two at a time and joined Thomas on the landing, talking his free arm. "That William is quite eager, isn't he?"

"Too much. Canon fodder," Thomas said.

Edward did not object to the words. He understood. "He called me a hero, silly boy. I don't know why people say that when it's not true."

They came to a stop at the room Thomas had been staying in. "I'm not here anymore."

"Sorry?"

"Lord Grantham had me moved to the smaller bedroom, next to his and Cora's, when Ernest arrived."

Edward turned them down the corridor. They walked slowly until they reached the door.

"Thank you," Thomas said.

"Goodnight." Edward squeezed his arm when he let go.

"Goodnight," Thomas said.

That night he slept fitfully, waking when the gentlemen retired to bed, and then drifting off again, until the soft sound of crying wove its way into his dreams. This time he did not hesitate, left his room for the hall and reached out in the darkness, imagined he was walking a league with each step, and opened the door to Edward's room.

"Edward?"

"Thomas?"

"Are you all right?"

"I can't seem to fall asleep, Thomas."

Thomas shut the door behind him. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No," Edward said.

Thomas reluctantly turned back and opened the door. He pulled up his feet from where they wanted to stay rooted to the floor.

"Don't go," Edward said. "Would you stay with me?"

"Yes, of course."

The bed sheets rustled. "Lady Edith seems nice."

"People aren't always what they seem."

"Then she's not?"

Thomas felt his stomach fall. In two days, Edward would be gone from his life forever. There was no need to say anything that might hurt him. Thomas sighed. "I think she'd be good for you. She's been lonely a long time, and people like that have a great deal of love to give. I should know."

"Are you lonely, Thomas?"

"Not since I've met you."

The bedclothes rustled again, and Edward stood up and his bare feet padded across the carpet. Thomas found hands in his hair and then lips on his, but he had barely enough time to kiss Edward back before he pulled away.

"What have I done?"

"Nothing wrong," Thomas begged. "Nothing wrong at all."

"Do you… want me, then?"

"Yes…" Thomas stepped towards Edward, then stopped. "But perhaps it's not best when you're feeling… ill? Up all night crying."

"I've not been up all night any night. And I've felt sick in my mind my whole life. Don't think you can cure me. Promise me you won't try."

"I promise," Thomas said. He reached out to Edward in the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

Notes:

tw: suicide attempt

Edward took Thomas's hand and pulled them both onto his bed. Thomas pressed his cheek to Edward's and felt wet tears. He kissed Edward's cheeks until they were dry. Edward's thick curls caught in his fingers.

Thomas felt hot skin burn through the cotton of their nightshirts. He wondered if he might be crushing Edward's slender limbs beneath him, but when he tried to push himself up on his elbows, Edward wrapped his hands around Thomas's neck and pressed their mouths together hungrily. They did nothing but kiss and kiss for a long time, Thomas pressing Edward into the mattress.

A small part of Thomas's mind told him to get on with it already, to make the most of the little time they had together. They could be discovered at any minute. Had he even locked the door?

Thomas pulled out of Edward's grasp and staggered to the door, where he found the lock and turned it.

"There," he said. "We won't be interrupted."

"Come to me," Edward said, and Thomas walked the four paces back to the bed, descended into Edward's open arms, kissed his forehead, cheeks, chin, neck, and the hot skin of his chest. "Please…" Edward said.

That night Thomas owned the dark in a way he never had before. He and Edward grew so wrapped in each other that Thomas wondered if the heat they made might scald him. He would be honored to be so consumed.

Edward found his release first, arching again, his nails raking down Thomas's shoulders. Thomas followed, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

The next thing Thomas knew, Edward was shaking him awake.

"You have to go," he murmured.

"I know," Thomas said, holding Edward close, long limbs cooler now, the sweat having dried away while he slept.

"You've given me something to remember," Edward said. "I thank you for that."

"Would you have rathered Lady Edith had?"

"Don't be nasty, Thomas. Not if you don't have to be."

Edward's breath fell on Thomas's cheek. "You have to go."

Thomas bent and kissed the first part of him his mouth could reach. It turned out to be his collarbone.

"Are you eating enough?" Thomas asked.

"Why do you ask?" Edward said, searching among the bedclothes for Thomas's pajamas.

"You seem thinner."

"I've always been thin," Edward said. He gathered up Thomas's pajamas, gave them to him, and kissed his lips. "You're a good man Thomas,"

"Only because you make me one."

"Now get to bed," Edward said, settling into his bedclothes still naked, as far as Thomas could tell. He liked the thought. "And put on your pajamas before you leave."

Edward left again with Matthew the following morning. Thomas was just making his way down the stairs for breakfast when he heard Matthew call, "Ready to go, Lieutenant?" from the front doors.

"Good morning, Thomas," Edward said, running up the steps to meet him, and leading him down.

"Good morning, Lieutenant. Did you sleep well?"

"I did, thank you," Edward said.

Thomas was sure he felt himself blushing.

"Lieutenant?" Matthew called.

"I'll be right there! Wait for me in the car."

Edward led Thomas away from the hall, into a small nook that felt cool and dark and damp. "I… don't have anything to say, but I did not want to talk to you in front of everyone…"

"Is everyone out there?"

"Lady Mary and Lord Grantham and the footmen." Edward hesitated, and then kissed Thomas on the cheek. "Thank you."

"You said thank you last night."

"It's worth saying again. I… I will see you tonight?"

"Yes."

Edward led him back into the main hall, where he waved as the car sputtered and drove off.

Thomas felt glad that Edward was gone for now. He felt so smitten and lost that he was sure he would betray himself if he had an entire day in which to do so. He did not think of today as their last together. He could not allow himself to. Edward would tell him how to reach him at the front, and they would write – if Thomas could find a confidante – and Edward would come home and… How could he think that this would end any differently than his flirtation with the duke?

"Thomas… Thomas?" He heard Ernest's voice as if from afar. Then there was a hand on his shoulder. He half jumped.

"Could you not hear me?" Ernest asked. "Don't you want to get started?" Ernest asked.

"Started… doing what?"

"Packing your things!" Thomas's stomach fell. "I can't stay too long on Lord Grantham's hospitality, and I want to see you settled in at London as soon as I can."

"Of course…"

"Perhaps I can help you pack your things? Or I can ask a servant, if you would prefer?"

"I don't have much."

As it turned out, Thomas's possessions from his time in the Army, what his parents had sent him from home upon the news of his injury, and the clothes he wore at Downton fit into a single truck.

"Will you be sorry to leave Downton?" Ernest asked, when they had shut the latches on the trunk.

"We are staying another night, aren't we?" Thomas asked desperately.

"Of course. We don't leave until tomorrow morning. You'll have plenty of time to say goodbye to everyone here."

"I… I don't know how I will feel. This place has not been kind to me, but it has been home," Thomas said.

"And you'll be sorry to say goodbye to the Lieutenant?" Ernest asked.

Thomas found every nerve in his body on alert, reaching to sense whether there was another question within that question. "Yes, I will."

Ernest made no sound.

Edward and Matthew only arrived moments before dinner was served. The talk that night was all about the war effort, and then Matthew and Lavinia's wedding preparations. They had seated Edward across the table from Thomas that night.

Thomas was asked where he was going with Ernest and if he was happy to be leaving. Ernest did most of the talking. Thomas would live with him and his wife, Cecelia, in London. Thomas would take classes in Braille, and if he could ever live on his own, he would be encouraged to, but he would be free to stay with Ernest for as long as he needed.

Thomas felt his throat closing up. A new life was about to be his. He would be leaving everything and everyone he had known here behind. He did not want to cry. If he did, they would all think he was being sentimental. He was not sentimental; he was frightened.

Thomas ate everything put in front of him, and twice spilled his food on his uniform. Each time, William came to the rescue with a damp cloth. William who wanted so much to be like Edward and Matthew. Thomas wondered how soon he would get his chance.

When the family rose to retire to the library and the parlor, Thomas excused himself. At the top of the stairs, he heard muffled footsteps following him.

"Wait!" Edward called.

Thomas held the wooden rail, and Edward scaled the stairs. When he came to a stop next to Thomas, he was panting. "I won't see you again, and I wanted to say a proper goodbye."

"A proper goodbye, Lieutenant?" Thomas whispered. "We can't do that in the hallway."

Edward squeezed his hand. "I'll have left by the time you wake up. Goodbye, Thomas." He kissed him long and hard.

"Goodbye, Edward," Thomas said.

Edward descended the stairs and Thomas stood a while facing out over the great hall, as if gazing after him.

Thomas could not sleep that night. He lay awake wondering why he and Edward could not have another night together. Was Edward worried about discovery? Was he simply unimpressed come morning? Was he ashamed? But Edward had just kissed him goodnight. He probably had good reason, but Thomas selfishly felt that he was entitled to that reason, whatever it might be.

He rose and walked slowly through the halls, careful not to seem too keen on his destination, in case Mrs. Hughes should happen upon him again.

He reached Edward's door. It was unlocked.

"Edward?" Thomas poked his head into his room.

There was no sound from the bed. Perhaps he was asleep.

Thomas took another step into the room and shut the door.

"Edward?" he said again. Edward's breathing was shallow and slow.

Thomas extended a hand into the darkness and touched Edward's cheek. It was cold.

The sound of dripping caught his ear, and he smelled blood. He instinctively ran his hands over Edward's body from head to toe, scanning for injury. When he reached Edward's wrists, he screamed, a sound that started in the pit of his stomach and came grating from his throat.

"Heeeeeeelp!"

His grip on Edward's wrists tightened.

"Heeeeeelp!"

Thomas heard far-off voices and the sounds of bare feet on carpet.

"Thomas, what on earth – !" Lord Grantham lost his breath when he opened the door. "Wh-what's happened here?"

"Don't just stand there. Help me!" Thomas said.

He heard the sounds of cotton tearing.

"Sybil, what are you doing?" Lord Grantham said.

"Call Doctor Clarkson," Sybil said.

Someone hurried from the room.

Sybil knelt next to the bed, took one of Edward's wrists from Thomas, and wrapped it in what must be a slip of cloth from her nightgown. "Can I have something long and thin, for a tourniquet?"

"Let the doctor do that, Sybil," Lady Grantham said.

"Yes, do," Lord Grantham agreed.

"The doctor won't come in time, father!" she said.

"Use my cane," Thomas said. "It's in my room."

Sybil placed another strip of cloth in his hands and ran from the room. Thomas leaned close to Edward. "Please come back to me," he begged. He wrapped Edward's other wrist in the cloth. He could feel blood soaking through his nightshirt.

When Sybil returned, she snapped Thomas's cane in two. "Sorry," she muttered, and handed one half to him.

"Don't worry. I'll get another." Thomas twisted the tourniquet on Edward's left wrist.

Edward moaned.

"Are you there?" Thomas whispered. "Are you there?"

"Thomas?" Sybil asked.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to be all right? If he doesn't make it."

"He'll make it," Thomas said. He wiped a hand across his brow, and it left blood behind. "He can't leave."

Edward moaned again. "Thomas?" he said.

"Yes, yes, I'm here."

"Why did you…"

"Shhh," Thomas said. "It's all right now."

"You said… you wouldn't try to save me," Edward said.

"You said nothing about offing yerself," Thomas muttered and brushed a lock of Edward's hair from his face.

"They're going to send me back."

"They won't do that. You're sick. They won't."

Sybil put a hand on Thomas's shoulder. "You should get cleaned up. The doctor will be here very soon. Edward won't leave now."

Thomas pulled away from her grasp, and held the tourniquet at Edward's wrist tighter.

"Listen to her," Mrs. Hughes said from the doorway. "Come with me, Thomas."

Thomas had always found Elsie Hughes difficult to disobey. So he followed her back to his room, where he was bathed, given a fresh nightshirt, and directed towards bed. He did not sleep.

When Thomas felt the first light from sunrise warm his room, he rose and ran towards Edward's.

Mrs. Hughes stood at the door. "Good morning, Thomas."

"How is he?"

"He's all right."

"May I see him?"

"Before you do, I've something to ask you," she said.

"Yes?"

"I just was curious," she said. Her voice dropped. "How you came to be in Lieutenant Courtenay's bedroom at just the right time."

"Are you suggesting I tried to kill him?"

"No, no! Not at all!"

"What then?"

She took Thomas's hand, rubbed circles on the back with her thumb. "Nothing. I just know what Mr. Carson would say."

"He doesn't need to know, does he?" Thomas said.

"Right you are."

"And you both needn't mind. I'll be gone from here very soon."

The door opened. Dr. Clarkson cleared his throat.

"Thomas? Lieutenant Courtenay has been asking for you."

Thomas's heart skipped a beat. "All right."

"Be careful what you say to him," Dr. Clarkson said in hushed tones. "I still can't say if he's stable enough not to try it again."

When Thomas closed the door, he waited for the footsteps of Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Hughes to fade, before saying, "Hello?"

"Hello."

"Are you well?"

Edward took in a deep breath. "How dare you," he said calmly. If the words had been different ones, they would have sounded just like I Love You.

"You're welcome," Thomas said.

"How dare you when you know just what I'm going back to!"

"They won't send you back, Edward."

"Tell that to Dr. Clarkson!"

Edward threw something at him. Thomas started. A pillow landed at his feet. He picked it up.

The covers rustled and Edward began to cry. They sounded like ugly, ugly tears. "I wanted to die. Don't you understand that?"

"No," Thomas said.

"Go away." He said it quietly.

There was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" Edward said.

"Lady Edith." Edith gasped when she opened the door. "What have you done, Thomas? Have you upset him?" she demanded.

The bedclothes rustled as if she were sitting next to Edward.

"Leave me be. Please…" Edward begged.

Thomas waited, stock still, for Edith to listen to him and to leave. She did not.

"Goodbye, Edward," Thomas said. "I'm leaving today."

"Then leave," Edith said.

Thomas waited for Edward to say something else, but he was still crying.

"Goodbye," Thomas said again.

Lord Grantham saw no reason that Thomas and Ernest should not catch their train. Thomas had tried to see Edward again all day, only to find he was being visited constantly, or else, as Dr. Clarkson said, "He needs some time alone."

William and the new footman, Mr. Lang, piled their bags into the car. Thomas and Ernest stood outside the grand house. Thomas liked to pretend the entire staff had lined up to see him off.

"Thank you for everything, milord," Thomas said, and held out his hand.

"It's been my pleasure, Thomas," Lord Grantham said and accepted.

They shook hands, but Thomas could not tell whether it was genuine, or whether the family was too happy to be rid of him. He was not entirely certain that he cared.

Sybil stepped forward, and Thomas held his hand out, but she embraced him instead. "I've given Branson one of father's canes."

"Thank you," he said. He felt his eyes welling up. "Thank you, Lady Sybil."

Branson helped Thomas into the car, and handed him the cane, which had a carved metal top.

Ernest climbed in next to him and shut the door.

The engine revved to life, and they left Downton Abbey behind.

After they drove so long, they must have left the house in the dust, Ernest leaned forward, and shut the window separating them from Branson in the front seat.

"You did a good thing, Thomas," Ernest said.

"Did I?"

"Of course!"

"They're going to send him back to the Front, aren't they?"

"That's not your business," Ernest said. "You saved him once, and who knows? That might turn out to be enough."

Thomas said nothing.

Ernest dropped his voice. "He means a great, great deal to you, doesn't he, Thomas?"

Thomas's eyes stung, and he found them wet when he touched them. "I… I love him."

"I think I knew that," Ernest said.

"He doesn't love me back. Or why would he do such a thing?" He was weeping openly now. "Why would he do such a thing?"

Ernest put an arm around Thomas's shoulders.

Thomas tried to speak again, but his tears choked him. He bowed his head. Ernest wrapped his arms around him and rocked him back and forth. He was muttering something, but Thomas was crying too loudly to tell what it was. Perhaps soothing words. Perhaps a lullaby.


End file.
